


sudden burst of sunlight

by politelydeclined



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jon Freaks Out About Tea But Tea Is Actually A Metaphor For Emotions, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Esteem Issues, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Tea, am i projecting? mayhaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:06:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politelydeclined/pseuds/politelydeclined
Summary: The average steeping time for Earl Grey was three to five minutes. A voice in Jon's head whispered something about "disastrous results after four minutes", while another insisted on at least six, to allow the citrus flavour to fully bloom.It was imperative he got this right. At the very least,thiswould have to be right.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 38
Kudos: 258





	sudden burst of sunlight

The average steeping time for Earl Grey was three to five minutes. A voice in Jon's head whispered something about "disastrous results after four minutes", while another insisted on at least six, to allow the citrus flavour to fully bloom.

It was imperative he got this right. At the very least, _this_ would have to be right.

He put down the teabags and opened the cabinet above the stove. They'd need cups, and sure enough there were a few of them – looking old and dusty and probably chipped – staring back at him.

He figured Martin would be okay with a ceramic mug, like the ones they kept in the break room, back in the Archives. He widened his eyes, and endless debates on porosity and resistance began to play out somewhere in his head. What if he got the material wrong? Maybe Martin liked his tea better in a porcelain cup. Daisy had one of those, an ancient thing with flowers that his grandmother would have appreciated immensely.

Jon decided to use both ceramic and china. He'd make two identical cups and let Martin decide which one he liked best.

He took the two teabags from the counter and gingerly placed them in the mugs.

Opening the tap, he let the water run for a good couple of seconds, mindful of the temperature. The Eye gave his knowledge of many blog entries on how water needed to be cold to obtain maximum flavour for tea. He didn't bother checking, and made sure it was as cool as he could get it before taking the small pot he'd found filling it to the brim.

Daisy did not own a kettle, something he'd have to rectify as soon as possible. He didn't want Martin to settle for some below-average tea, not if he could help it.

Holding the pot with one hand, he turned the stove on, setting the fire on medium heat, before finally getting started on the water.

Who knew tea could be so stressful?

He kept an eye out for any signs of Martin having woken up, footsteps or some kind of rustling.

Nothing. 

Good, he wanted him to rest, and he wanted to have his tea ready for him when he did actually wake up.

He stared intently at the fire, his mind focused on the growing temperature. 

For a perfect cup of Earl Grey, the water needed to be slightly below boiling point – ninety-seven degrees Celsius, or two-hundred-and-eight degrees Fahrenheit or three-hundred-and-seventy degrees Kelvin, something in him supplied – and he would sooner stick his hand in it than have the water growing too hot. It could ruin everything, and he would not stand for it.

He glanced at the window on the wall to his left, glass dirty and covered in what Martin had kindly described as ‘frankly horrendous curtains’ that apparently belonged in a dumpster and were so incredibly un-Daisy that it made him chuckle to himself.

And hadn’t that made Jon die inside a bit. Was he meant to take it as a suggestion to get new curtains once they were more settled in, along the kettle and all the small things they’d need to ensure Martin was satisfied with their situation? Or rather, did Martin find them funny? Would they become part of some kind of inside joke? Would they make him chuckle like that again?

Jon didn’t want to get rid of anything that made Martin laugh so light-heartedly. 

He placed the word  _curtains_ in his Mental List Of Things We Must Change, filing it under the Unsure column. He’d try to find out what course of action to follow once Martin was up. He could study and catalogue his reactions to them, and he’d have his answer in a couple of days. He could definitely do that.

He figured they’d have to clean the whole place too. A proper, deep-cleaning like his grandmother used to have him help with during the summer – they would get all the mattresses out in the garden to get rid of any dust or humidity,  and wash all the sheets and hang the carpets outside the windows and scrub the floors until they were shiny. 

He remembers being so excited about using a sleeping bag during those days, and sleeping in the living room. It felt like having a sleepover, even though it was just him and his books.

His grandmother never slept on the floor, of course. Bad back and everything.

With a start, he realised the water was almost ready, tiny bubbles appearing at the bottom of the pan and beginning to make their way to the surface. He’d gotten distracted-  _how_ could he let himself get distracted? He had almost ruined the tea.

_Pour some water in the cup and leave it for a while until it grows warm for optimum results._

Apparently a cold cup could destroy the entire steeping process. Something about the temperature staying constant, so the blend of tea has all it needs to show off its rich flavour. 

Carefully following the instructions, he made sure both cups were lukewarm before placing the teabags back inside and finally pouring the water in. He didn’t want to spill a single drop on the counter.

Painfully slow, he filled them, watching as they began to darken, a warm brownish colour swallowing the white inside of the mugs. A countdown began in his head, a slow ticking as the seconds went by. 

_Get to three-hundred, Jon. Five minutes_ _to reach the full benefit of the citrus aroma and taste._

He could count to three hundred. He could count to three thousand, three millions, if that was what it took to make Martin happy.

He made himself busy by taking the milk out of the fridge and getting the sugar from below the sink – who kept their sugar below the sink, he wondered – and fighting off the increasing anxiety. There was a familiar pressure over his chest, a weight sitting above his heart, threatening to crush his throat if he didn’t keep his breathing in check. 

He would  _not_ mess this up – he would prove it to himself that he didn’t ruin everything he touched.

This was just tea, for Christ’s sake. When had he become the type to freak out over  _tea_ ?

A sudden doubt crept in his mind- a mellifluous voice reminding him that some people liked their Earl Grey with lemon. Did they even have any lemon? They hadn’t been able to go shopping yet, only had the few bags Basira had handed them as they got ready to leave London, and for all her qualities, she didn’t seem the kind of person to worry about how Jon would now have to give Martin tea without lemon. 

This was a disaster. 

Once again, Jon would prove that he couldn’t do this, wasn’t meant to do this. Couldn’t help Martin, couldn’t make him happy.

He wouldn’t be able to make him stay, and in all fairness, he wouldn’t even be able to blame him if he did leave in the end. No one deserved this monstrosity in their life, least of all  _him_ .

Couldn’t even get tea right. 

One would figure that the Beholding – oh so keen on keeping its Archivist safe from harm – would also make sure he stayed in control of his breathing, now growing shallow and irregular. The pressure over his chest was heavier, weighing him down.

He brought a shaking hand to his sternum, unsure as he both wanted to press down and somehow  _pull out_ whatever it was that seemed to be pouring molten steel in his lungs, filling them up until there was no space left for  oxygen .

Absent mindedly, he noticed his eyes were unfocused, tears beginning to spill and run down his cheeks.

_Five minutes are over, Jon. Wouldn’t want to over-steep the tea. Wouldn’t want to make matters worse._

He choked on air, vision darkening as he let himself fall to his knees. Childishly, he went to hide his head in his arms, curling into a ball on the floor. God, how  _pathetic_ , he’d made his way out of the Lonely and still had a breakdown over a stupid cup of tea. Distantly aware of his surroundings, he closed his eyes, a high pitched wheeze making its way out of his throat with each rasping, troubled intake. 

_Working yourself into a frenzy, Jon? How incredibly obvious. Can’t really be expected to function properly, can you Jon? Always ready to cause a scene, always ready to ruin things for everyone, Jon._

“-on, Jon, come  _on_ , breathe with me-”

_After all, it is oh so typical of you, Jon, attempting to do the most basic things and miserably failing._ _Say, Jon, have you got the slightest idea how difficult you are to be around? And you still want Martin to put up with it, with you, after everything you’ve said to him._

“-out, Jon, in and out. You can do this, just follow my lead-”

_How do you expect him to stay with a monster that can’t even make tea, for God’s sake? Maybe you should have helped him out of the Lonely while you stayed behind, Jon. Maybe you should have let go while you were in that hospital bed, where you couldn’t hurt him._

“-ok ay , you’re gonna be fine, I  _promise_ , Jon, I just need you to breathe.”

Through a teary veil, Jon made out a familiar shape kneeling in front of him, hands tightly balled up into fists at his sides, itching to reach out and touch but keeping themselves from doing so. He breathed, the sound sharp and scratching against his throat, and his vision began to clear.

“That’s good, Jon, keep breathing. Look at me, it’s alright, I’ve got you.”

Martin’s figure was more defined now, his broad shoulders and soft stomach, his blond hair that he had shaved after the Unknowing and had only recently started to grow back, his worried eyes and  smooth beard.

“You’re doing great, love. Keep breathing for me, okay?”

He attempted speaking before giving a curt nod instead. His brain felt less muddled now, more alert. He realised he had been rocking slightly, back and forth as he shook and struggled for air.

Around this same moment, he also realised the tea was now definitely  over-steeped , and that thought made him choke on his own tongue as he scrambled to his feet.

“Jon- stay  _down,_ you almost fainted there. Jesus.” Martin slowly guided him back down, a steadying hand settling over his arm.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered, glancing at the cups on the counter dejectedly. 

“It’s hardly your fault- these things can be quite vicious, I know a-and besides I wasn’t sure how you felt about me touching you- I am aware it can be either grounding or it can make things worse so I figured I would wait for you to get better to ask. Anyway, point is you shouldn’t apologise for getting a panic attack.”

Jon shook his head vehemently, hands grabbing the soft fabric of Martin’s jumper. 

“T-the tea, Martin. I’m sorry, I- I messed up-”

Martin looked up at the two cups. They seemed safe enough – no eyeballs floating on the surface, at least, so unless Jon had used rat poison instead of sugar-

“I  _tried_ , I swear I did, I’ll be better, I’ll get better at it-”

“Hey, hey, it’s fine. Slow down, Jon.” He cut him off, not harsh but  firm. 

Jon shook his head again, closing his eyes to push back tears. He would not fall apart again, not in front of Martin. 

“Can you please tell me what happened? It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

_What would you rather do, Jon? Make him see how weak you are, or drive him further away?_

“I-” his throat was parched, tongue sitting heavily in his mouth. He swallowed. “I wanted to make tea.”

Martin gave him a small, encouraging smile.

“I wanted to make tea,” he repeated, struggling to keep his eyes focused on Martin. “And I ruined it. I couldn’t- I couldn’t do it, and I messed it all up.”

Without saying a word, Martin took one of the cups –  _ceramic, he likes the ceramic mug_ – and  went back to his place on the floor, gulping down a sip of tea. He swallowed it, and furrowed his brow.

“Jon, it’s perfectly fine-”

“No, it’s not!” He realised with a pang of embarrassment that he was going to cry. “It’s over-steeped, and the water temperature was wrong and I didn’t know what material would be best for Earl Grey and then I realised we only had milk and sugar and there was no lemon- what if you like your tea with lemon? How am I supposed to make you happy if I can’t even get bloody  _tea_ right?”

The sudden burst left him breathless again as he settled with his back to the wall. He didn’t dare look up, didn’t want to see the expression on Martin’s face. Wasn’t sure he’d be able to take it.

“I-” He tried again, lids heavy. “I need to be better, I know. I have to be what you deserve, and I want to be, I’m trying- I just know I’ll ruin this too, and I don’t want to.”

Martin didn’t say anything for a while. Part of him was tempted to glance at him, but the other half of his brain yelled at him not to. 

_You don’t want to see him look at you with pity. Disgust. God knows you have enough of that._

“Jon.”

He puzzled over that single word. It wasn’t said with open distaste, which was- well, not good, but definitely better than it could have been. It wasn’t uttered with that underlying anger that always found a way to seep into his bones and nest itself atop his heart. It was neutral, a simple attempt to get his attention. Was he spiralling again? 

“Jon, can you look at me? Again, you don’t have to. You can simply listen if you want.”

Jon kept his eyes closed, bracing himself for what was to come.

“Look, I- God, I know I am utter shit at this, so bear with me. Please.” He took a deep breath, and fabric rustled as he sat next to him against the wall, close enough for his body heat to reach him but not enough to touch. 

“Jon, the tea was fine. It was great. I like it strong, and I don’t mind the lemon or- or lack of it. I know this isn’t about the stupid  _tea_ , but. Just so you know, I like your tea. How you do it. It’s good.”

Something in his chest threatened to pound its way out, ribcage tightening. He made himself count to ten before giving a small nod. 

“We’re both. Not great at this whole sharing-your-feelings thing, I’m aware. And- I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared too. I am.” A  feathery touch on his arm, testing the waters. Jon leaned into it, keeping his eyes firmly shut.

“I don’t want to fuck this up either. But, Jon- You don’t have to feel like- like you need to  _provide_ anything to keep me happy or, or keep me by your side. Just be yourself, that’s all I want.”

“You say that,” Jon whispered. “You say that now, but I assure you, it doesn’t work like that. Not for me.”

“Then tell me.”

“If I don’t- If I don’t give you  _anything_ , how are you expected to stay? If I’m not useful, I’m  _nothing_ -”

The hold on his arm grew tight, and Jon found himself gasping.

“Don’t. Don’t say that, ever.” Martin’s voice was pure steel, adamant as he let him go to crawl back in front of him. “Jon, never-  _never_ feel like you have to be useful. Being you – just you – is good enough. More than. And stop shaking your head, I know what I’m saying.”

“You don’t mean that. Everybody wants something, and I can’t- I can’t even deal with some tea.”

He opened his eyes. Martin was staring at him with resolve painted all over his face. Stubborn fool.

“Then let  _me_ deal with the tea. You’re a better cook anyway- I can barely scramble some eggs. We can just. Split things up. Or- or teach each other how to do them.”

Jon felt his mouth quirk upwards. 

“I don’t think you can learn to cook, you’re a lost cause on that front.”

Martin laughed at that, perhaps with too much enthusiasm. “Bastard.”

Jon moved closer – slowly, ready to back down at the first sign of discomfort – until he managed to rest his head on Martin’s chest, legs thrown to the side to fit better in his lap. His mind went to the Admiral, recognising his technique for some snuggles.

If it worked for the cat, it could work for him as well.

“I love you,” he whispered. “And I want to be enough for you.”

“You are.” Martin rested his chin over Jon’s head, bringing a hand to caress his hair. “You are, and I love you too.”

  
  
  


  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from: Stray Italian Greyhound, by Vienna Teng.  
> Comments are the statements to my Archive. Whatever that means. Point is, if you liked this (or disliked it, or just want to tell me something about cats) maybe leave a small comment :))  
> I debated whether to add Misuse Of Beholding Powers but like. Jon basically googles recipes with his magic eye, and I wasn't sure if it counted. But like, it's there.  
> Fun Fact: while writing this I made myself a cup of tea and forgot to take the teabag out. Life imitates art and all that, thing is when I realised let me tell you I _choked_.


End file.
